His Imperative
by ItsClydeBitches221B
Summary: Fill for the prompt: Cass and Jesse testing out his power. Cass finds it totally hot.


They say that God works in mysterious ways and speaks like that too, in deeds or whispers you have to decipher on your own—a way of proving faith and worth. Cass thought that was the worst bit of bullocks he'd ever heard, and he'd heard a damn big, ear-splitting amount in his time. God didn't give two shits about his creations, and the Word of God... well, that needed clear audio like a call girl in need of testing.

Lucky for Cass, Jesse' voice was the damn sweetest things those ears had ever heard.

Even so, they liked to play with it, testing it out when it was soft, garbled, screamed or sung. Jesse would whisper commands down by Cass' feet and watch as it was Cass' head that swam with happy obedience. In the shower together he'd say ' _ **Stretch**_ ' and Cass would raise hands up high, Jesses' voice proving more scalding than the hot water down his back, more of a thrum through his bones than the church's shitty water presser could ever be. Out in the desert among roaring winds, in the quiet of Emily's office, the tick of her ancient clock—time itself—the only thing that dared to accompany them… Cass knew he'd be satisfied if he could just listen to Jesse's voice for the rest of eternity. He'd follow it anywhere, command or no.

In service a week later Cass was in his usual spot, a pew in the back where he could watch Jesse without trouble, arms thrown over the bench and sunglasses slipping from his nose. When everyone stood to sing hymns he wasn't expecting the eye contact, but it soared through Cass' blood like a live wire.

"You too, Cass," Jesse said, barely hiding his smirk. " _ **Stand**_."

If the other residents noted the new timber of Jesse's voice, they didn't mention it—too busy complaining about the heat, their pains, and everything in between. But Cass' legs snapped straight all the same, a soldier coming to attention, and the grin Jesse set loose was worth every pull of muscles and sinew.

Cass opened his mouth to sing. Like the rest of them, he sang for Jesse Custer.

* * *

Cass had a fondness for shitty Sci Fi, the sort of stuff that came in flimsy paperbacks or was accompanied by low-budget special effects: a spaceship on strings, or a monster that was actually the producer's nephew under a rug. That sort of shit was both entertaining and hilarious, a way to create something great without taking it too seriously—the exact sort of fun that everyone should strive for in their lives.

Figuring out he was a vampire should have been great. The strength, immortality, the proof that some of the amazing things Cass had read about were true. Funny thing about murder and being hunted though, sort of lost its charm a couple decades in. Didn't mean Cass had given up on that heady mix with power though, to say nothing of the hilarious uses for it. He just hadn't expected to find that mix in bloody Bumfuck Texas.

" _ **Take off your pants**_."

That sounded fine and dandy to ol' Cass, problem was, Jesse hadn't let him take his _shoes_ off first. The result was Cass hopping and snarling as he tried pulling skinny jeans over freaking hiking boots. When that didn't work—when the power demanded that he act _right the fuck now_ —Cass put that flexibility to work and bent, tearing the jeans apart with his teeth.

The part of him not focused on the task could hear Jesse howling on the couch beside him.

It took a while, but eventually Cass was able to stand, pale hairy legs on full display. He spit a shred of denim onto the floor.

"Yeah, yeah," he chuckled. "Laugh it up, ya asshole."

Jesse was almost fully lying down, just one arm propping him up and his legs slung over the armrest. It was no doubt mostly the two bottles they'd gone through, but Cass was pleased at how easily he made Jesse laugh. He was practically choking.

" _ **Wear—wear your shirt as a skirt**_ ," he managed, then went back to wheezing into his hand.

Cass wanted to curse, but Jesse hadn't said he could, so he pulled his shirt off lickity split and tied it around his waist, thankfully covering up those ratty-ass boxers. Except Jesse said _skirt_ and only half of him was covered now… that wasn't enough. Luckily, Cass had two. He pulled his under-shirt off and tied that on as well, leaving this one hanging in the back. Only then did the need to obey abate. Cass twirled for Jesse, plaid and cotton swirling.

"Do I look pretty to you, padre?" he asked and all Jesse could do was nod, tears streaming down his cheeks and muscles spasming.

Cass wagged a finger, though he couldn't help but grin. "You know, I ought to be offended, I should. What you got against nice lookin' blokes in skirts, eh?"

Jesse couldn't answer. Cass was just teasing though, he knew Jesse didn't actually have anything against this so-called 'fashion statement.' Hell, _he_ was the one wearing a bra underneath that preacher's garb. Just something about seeing Cass in nothing but socks and a self-made skirt apparently set him off. Cass was mighty pleased to see Jesse curling into a ball on the couch, empty bottle tucked under his arm like some fucked-up teddy bear.

" _ **Ne—Ne—**_ " he couldn't get the word out. Jesse gave up and buried his face in the cushion.

Cass was frozen though.

It was clear Jesse was demanding something of him—his mind had caught the _syllable_ of God at least—but what it was Cass hadn't a damn clue. It was an awful feeling actually, his body needing so desperately to obey and his conscious self having no idea how to go about that. Cass ended up staring into Jesse's watering eyes, silently trying to convey his need to know... _know_ what Jesse desired.

And it came to him, the slightest whisper in the back of his mind: " _ **Kneel**_."

Cass dropped to his knees, relief rushing through him.

If Jesse was surprised he didn't show it, too caught up in his own world to care. Cass knew though. He'd felt that connection, if only for the briefest moment.

Oh yes. Jesse's voice in his head was the _sweetest_ thing...

"Yeah, you like embarrassin' me, don't ya? Bloody, beautiful bastard."

Cass let the feeling go and gave way to mirth. He shuffled towards Jesse on just his knees, shoulders bent back and attempting a frankly god-awful shimmy, singing Bieber's "Baby! Baby! Baby!" at the top of his lungs.

Only thing sweeter than Jesse's voice was that laugh.

* * *

It was a certain kind of sin, having Jesse's mouth against his chest.

They'd had it quick and dirty in the church's storage closet just twenty minutes before, Emily only a few feet away, Jesse's fevered order to " _ **Keep quiet, dammit**_ " had been a literal godsend. Cass had never come quietly before—when it came to sex _or_ the law—though he supposed Jesse was just the harbinger of first times.

Now it was Cass' ratty mattress up in the attic, everything slow like syrup.

"Jess, Jess, you want...?" Cass couldn't get anything concrete out. He could barely focus on keeping himself breathing. Not that he needed to. Maybe he should give it up? Seemed like a nice, ego-boosting thing to do: literally go breathless for his partner.

No. Wait. Focus. Cass had been trying to ask whether Jesse wanted anything. It had been _his_ quick jerk off in the downstairs closet, Jesse only watching him in the close quarters, occasionally licking his lips. Now it seemed to be the 'tease Cass' portion of the night. Jesse hadn't seemed to give a single damn about his own erection, focusing solely on sucking and biting every inch of Cass' skin he could get at. Jesse was fully clothed. Cass was naked. There seemed to be a power dynamic here, yet Jesse hadn't given an order in ages.

Until something like electricity threaded itself along Cass' skin, right where Jesse was nuzzling his thigh. He'd have chalked it up to just the preacher's skill, except that he knew that skill well by now and Jesse had yet to freeze up his limbs like that, focus his mind to a pinprick in quite this manner...

Cass gasped when he realized Jesse was mouthing something against his skin. Again and again. Lips pulling and tugging a silent word out of him.

It took him time, and a concentration Cass couldn't have put to anything else. When he realized what it was he arched his back and laughed to the ceiling.

Jesse was now mouthing, " _ **Yell**_ " directly atop Cass' cock.

No need to be silent anymore then. Who was he to disobey a direct order?

Cass arched further and proceeded to scream the church down.

* * *

One hot day and Jesse admitted that English wasn't his first language. His dad was off preaching (his mom, he didn't mention) and when little Jesse wasn't stacking bibles he was left in the care of strict, solid Abigail. She poured Spanish into his head with the same look used when she filled buckets with the garden's weeds.

"Esto se siente más natural," he said, shrugging. Cass had to bite his lip at the sudden accent creeping into Jesse's voice. "Mi padre trató de sacarme el idioma a los golpes. Pero soy terco," and yeah, Cass could agree with that.

They realized quick enough that this power had no single language. Why should it? Jesse could growl out his English or whisper his Spanish. No matter the packaging, when he gave voice to the word " _ **Jump**_ " Cass was bound to ask, "How high?"

It took them a while to consider understanding though. That Cass had been around long enough to pick up all sorts of bits and pieces, his mind accepting the commands because he knew that's what they were meant to be. It was only when Jesse got the drunk Russian passing through to teach him some positively filthy phrases and garbled them back to Cass (no talent for that it seemed) that for the first time Cass was able to stare blankly, recognizing the deep rumble of the Word but having no concept of his orders.

"... the fuck you want?" he asked, pausing with hands wrapped around his cock. Jesse spluttered out a laugh.

He learned though, because hell if Cass was going to pass up the opportunity to obey Jesse in every language imaginable. They passed fluently between Spanish and English, a smattering of French between them, and Cass threw himself into teaching Jesse every bit of Gaelic he could. The day Cass spoke of his Deaf mate back in Chicago is the day Jesse grinned something fierce, turning so Cass could see him clearly, then curling pointer and middle fingers onto his non-dominant hand. Cass recognized the sign and dropped to his knees, right there in the dirt outside the diner.

The worst is when Jesse started keeping a pocket dictionary in his jacket, whispering bits in languages Cass recognized but couldn't translate. The inability to follow those commands left a horrible itch, like mites crawling beneath his skin.

The best though… the best is when they got drunk and reverted to school-age boys, making up their own language because why the hell not. Jesse could whisper anything then with the assurance of complete and utter secrecy.

They didn't always use it though. Sometimes Cass liked the town to _know_.

* * *

What you don't know won't hurt you and Cass had never known a bigger load of bullocks in his whole fucking life.

He didn't know the governor of Texas, but that was a damn minor thing in Jesse's eyes—a blip in a test in their otherwise hectic lives, easily forgotten. Certainly not needing forgiveness.

Cass didn't know what "givin' brains" was either when it poured out of Jesse's mouth, sitting there dumb with his lips still latched onto the preacher's hipbone, asking, "What the fuck? Am I a zombie now 'stead of a vamp?" but that had just given them both a good laugh, something that too often felt rare in Cass' life. That was fine.

What _wasn't_ fine was when Cass had his feet up on the front pew, listening to Jesse talk about mortality, of all things, and the guy three rows ahead of him tumbled straight to the ground.

He learned later that this was Fred, a Math instructor over at tiny Annville High, known for his strict homework policies and for handing out shit candy at the end of the year. Like most of his kind, he'd grown up on a diet of beer and the all-American hamburger, both of which had caught up with him, all at once, at the tender age of fifty-eight.

Cass despised the man for going here, right in Jesse's church. Irrationality be damned.

So Fred fell, causing a right ruckus, and his wife with her perfumed hair was there, pounding hands on his chest as she shrieked for an ambulance. Cass thought, _Fuck. Annville ain't got an ambulance. Even I know that,_ but that seemed the thing to do in times like this. Cry for help. Pray to god someone listened.

Cass looked up at the cross and sneered.

 _Someone_ heard though because then Jesse was there, down on his knees and Fred's head in his lap, shouting orders with a power that had nothing to do with what had taken up residence in his chest. It was Jesse that Cass was drawn to, pushing through all those fake disciples to get down by the man's feet.

It was at this level that Cass could see the damage being done, right before his eyes. Fred's face was contorting and he had spit drying on his chin—his wife had abandoned him to sob against the nearest pew. People shouted and ran about, a few thrill seekers sticking by to gawk at the spectacle. Everything was chaos and sorrow.

Even Jesse. Especially Jesse. Cass stopped breathing completely when he caught a look at his expression: absolute devastated... and yet so damn resigned. Jesse's hands were gripping tight to Fred's collar and they were trembling, pale spiders hovering there, creatures that still feared death even after experiencing so much of it. Cass was reaching for Jesse's hands when he spoke.

" _ **Help him**_ ," he begged, voice nearly inaudible.

It took Cass a moment to realize he'd gripped Fred's hand instead.

He didn't know _how_ to help.

This was the best he could do.

* * *

It worked on bodily functions. In ways that were a submissive's damn wet dream.

Coming down from the agonizing high of death and they both needed something, _anything_ else to hold onto. They turned to each other and Cass discovered further joy in taking orders when he'd skirted them for nearly a century. Jesse brought out something new in him. Coming to expect the unexpected.

" _ **Get hard**_ ," he whispered, walking out the church doors, and Cass was immediately tenting his pants with a speed that ached throughout the rest of his body.

Jesse left him like that. Just walked out into the blazing sun where Cass couldn't follow. He spent the day sequestered in the attic, learning just how obedient his body was to Jesse. He knocked off one... then two... three... watching in fascination as he just became hard again and again. He took a cold shower that did nothing. Then a bath that made things worse. By mid-afternoon Cass was sprawled on Jesse's bed, his lube slicking the sheets, fucking himself as slow as he could so he wouldn't have to start all over again. By nightfall he was a sobbing, writhing mess, half convinced this was still happening because he _loved_ it.

That's how Jesse found him, naked except for the sheet he was twisted up in, powder and lube and cum painting him white, thrusting into the air with all the abandon of an animal gone mad.

And Jesse was grinning when he took him in hand, all teeth and cruel curiosity as he finally ordered Cass down.

His arms were heaven then. Jesse's face hovering, ethereal above him—it was all Cass could see.

* * *

He thought then that this is their game: could Jesse catch him before heading out, impart some command to consume Cass' day—not all of them sexual, not all of them kind. (The one to clean the bloody church top to bottom _hadn't_ been funny, Jesse.) Though each was thrilling in its way. Cass didn't get tired of testing this power out, or of Jesse testing him.

So it was something of a letdown to stumble into the kitchen and learn that Jesse had already left for his rounds, not even bothering to look for Cass, apparently. Except when he grabbed a beer and tried to ignore Emily's admonishment that it was "8:00am Cassidy," she snagged his sleeve—pinching it like she was holding something foul—and said that Jesse had left him a recording, of all things. Emily didn't outright voice her curiosity and Cass didn't bother to sate it.

He wasn't a total idiot now, despite what a substantial portion of the world's population might say. Cass took the old-fashioned recorder up to the attic, far away from prying eyes and, more importantly, prying ears. When he finally got the damn thing to play Cass wasn't at all surprised to hear Jesse's voice, imbued with power that made Cass' teeth clench and the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

There are only two words, proceeded and followed by silence: " _ **Find me**_."

Cass grinned, wide enough to split his lip. When he raced out the door in all the protective clothing available and Emily asked what exactly he thought he was doing, Cass had only two words in turn:

"Treasure hunt!"

The day was long then, thrilling and childishly fun in a way Cass hadn't experienced in years. He wanted to make it last, but the need drove him to steal the church van, prizing speed over all else. He should have had more faith in his padre. It took him hours to work through every building, every room, laughing at the startled residents who wanted to know what the _hell_ he thought he was doing. Cass got a little leniency when he told them he was looking for their preacher... but not much. He could care less. The itch of being away from Jesse had turned into a sickness, spreading through Cass with a strength he could only compare to the need for blood. He shook with every empty household; whining after every corner turned without Jesse there.

The sun was going down again by the time Cass broke Annville's town line, hungry—inhumanly so—and the ache in his limbs having turned to a burn. Cass found Jesse in his beat up truck, lying in the back with stone-cold burgers in his lap. He kept his gaze fixed on the approaching stars as Cass climbed in next to him.

"Found me," he said, smiling and passing the greasy bag. Cass clasped Jesse's arm instead, feeling like he hadn't truly found him until they'd touched.

When they did, Cass could breathe again.

"Treasure," he murmured, ignoring Jesse's look. Cass didn't need to see.

He had it under-hand.

* * *

Except that having it in hand didn't mean _well_ in hand, and one day everything got away from them both.

It was what was bound to happen, what with who Cass was and who Jesse had become, and throwing Tulip into the mix was just a fucking douse of alcohol on an already raging fire. Before Cass knew it he wasn't the only supernatural being kicking about, with angels left and right, to say nothing of the self-proclaimed Saint of Killers. It was only a matter of time before they had enemy upon enemy biting their tales and Jesse started spouting shit about keeping him _safe_.

Didn't matter how many times Cass raged about honor and age and promises and the fact that he was a fucking vampire, for Christ's sake, Jesse. Half of what he loved about the man was that arrogance, and now it was able to manifest in the most horrifying ways.

Cass found him once, in one of the endlessly identical motels they'd crashed in. Tulip was out getting supplies and Jesse was just this side of exhausted, allowing Cass to peer through the bathroom's doorway without notice. What he saw made his stomach cramp and his eyes fill up, despite the fact that he wasn't a crying man and damn it all, he never would be.

Didn't mean the tears didn't try though. Not when Jesse was bent over the sink, staring himself down in the cracked mirror and telling himself over and over to " _ **Be good. Be better. Do right by him. Be good, you absolute fuck**_."

The only person the Word didn't work on was potentially the one who needed it most.

Except that Cass still loved him. Some stupid part of him still claimed Jesse was perfect.

Even when they went to bed that night and he was too careful in his ministrations, gentle in a way they hadn't bothered with since the day they left Annville, setting off every alarm bell ever installed. Jesse was buried in Cass, keeping them both so close to the edge, when he whispered, " _ **I love you**_ " directly against his heart—

—right before he told Cass to leave him.

A command for the future, limitless unless Jesse said otherwise. Cass was still coming all over himself when he stood to slip on jeans and a shirt, grabbing the keys to their stolen car and just enough cash to get by. He was shrieking bloodcurdling curses inside his head as his body walked towards the door.

Jesse had five more words for him then, voice so rough and choked it barely made it out at all.

" _ **Don't miss me too much**_."

Fuck him. That was the one command Cass wouldn't obey.

* * *

But sometimes the world is, while not kind, not entirely cruel either. Sometimes, there are happy endings.

Cass was five states over from where they last met and sixteen years older when Jesse knocked on his door. He hadn't moved up from motels in their time apart. He hadn't wanted to.

The man standing on the other side was wearier, though no older than the one Cass had known. It suddenly struck him that maybe power like that came with time too. A cost not dissimilar to vampirism.

It was a strike of hope that literally buckled Cass' knees.

He was there then, bent on the rank carpet, Jesse at a standstill because he no longer had the right to move forward. It took Cass a full ten minutes to calm himself down and Jesse was still there, waiting. Ten minutes didn't compare to sixteen years, but still...

"Forgive me?" Jesse asked. Not a trace of power was found in his words.

What a fucking question.

Cass kicked open the door and Jesse stepped inside.

 _Fin._


End file.
